


Memories.

by onlyeli



Category: Portal (Video Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 21:29:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10544646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyeli/pseuds/onlyeli
Summary: A few memories from Chell's point of view.





	1. Chidhood Memory.

she’d fallen whilst playing in the halls, nastily scraping her left knee and ripping her new jeans. somewhat fearful that her father would be angry, chell, around seven, had stolen away down an unfamiliar corridor and hidden there, sniffling into her sleeve and utterly lost. one of her pigtails was slowly unravelling, a sorry state if she had ever known one, but her sadness and pain was quickly forgotten once she had come across the double doors.

they were sizeable things, broad and impending in her path, and she was required to stand on her toes to give the bar a hefty shove so they would open. they did so noiselessly, smooth and ominous. her trainers made gentle scuffing sounds on the sterile floor, and automatic lights flashed into life upon sensing her presence – she jumped as they did so, a small crease forming on the bridge of her nose. the walls were a harsh white, covered with small seams that made it apparent they weren’t walls but panels, ever shifting and brand new. curiosity got the better of the small girl, and she reached out to press her hand against one, grey-blue eyes wide.

jumping back in shock, her breath was caught – they were warm, humming softly all around her: they were alive. heart quickening in her chest, chell walked further into the room, determination clear in her stride. the full extent of aperture was unbeknown to her – but she would find out, despite her fears.

attention caught by a cloth-covered table, she tiptoed over, lips pressed in that thin, serious line. the cloth was as perfectly clean as the rest of the room, seemingly fresh and undisturbed. chell’s small hand, vaguely clammy with nervous sweat, took one corner and lifted, breath held until it hurt. a flash of silver caught her eye, teeth gnawing on her bottom lip in a small showcase of nerves. pulling the cloth back, chell stood on her toes once more, a great effort to stare at the newest aperture invention.

the casing lay, dormant, on its side. a simple contraption, a spherical construct with a blank slab of glass in the centre, she reached out to poke at it, the metal cold under her touch. a breath is huffed from her nose, relief and some kind of disappointment – chell ran her hand over the side of the casing, over one of the two handles. what it is supposed to be, she was unable to tell – most likely some sort of security system ( she had heard talk of ‘sentry turrets’ on the top floor ), but, as of now, it lay, sleeping. a smile came to rest on her face: her worry had been unfounded.

for some reason, the longer she stayed, the less comfortable she became; it was wrong, to see it like that, like she had walked in on a human being in its most vulnerable state. the young girl covered the sphere back up, breathing steadily through her nose, turning to slide into a brisk jog, her bloodied knee twinging all the while. she told no one and no one had asked her about it, all too preoccupied with her injury – but when she got time to herself, she would draw the construct from memory, colouring the glass she had seen so empty in her favourite colours: green, purple, orange, blue – friendly eye-colours for her imaginary companion.


	2. A Memory That May Not Have Happened.

head pounding, hands bloodied and throbbing, chell tries to lift her head, eyes hazy. there’s so much pain – her legs ache, twisted over each other awkwardly, the metal of her knee replacements digging relentlessly into her grimy and exposed skin. the torso of her jumpsuit, now in tatters, sticks to her uncomfortably, blood and sweat the adhesive that she cannot seem to avoid. her hipbones are flush against the floor, bruises no doubt already forming there. one of her ribs juts awkwardly: broken, bulging her skin outwards.

dazedly, she wriggles her arms free of her sleeves, cheek pressed against some sort of gravel. she just wants to sleep – close her eyes and let the pain go away, all her energy and adrenaline leeched from her and leaving her a shell of the woman who had just blown up her prison. pulling her jumpsuit down, grateful for the aperture regulation tank top underneath, she knots the frayed fabric around her waist, still lay uncomfortably on what seems to be stones.

her breath stops in her throat.

stones. not panels, not smooth, sterile tiles, but stones. pressing her arms to the floor, wincing as cuts re open and her rib sends flashes of screaming pain up her side, chell uses all her effort to look up, blinking blood and sweat from her eyes and ignoring the heavy drumbeat of pain in her head.

grey concrete surrounds her, bordered by lush, green foliage – overhead, a bird sings loudly, then stops. taking quick inventory of her limbs, chell feels sunlight against her skin, and any injuries she has become less and less important.

there’s a light breeze ruffling her hair, the sky above brilliantly blue, as if it had known and was welcoming her. if she were any more in her right mind, she would have burst into relieved tears on the spot: her concussion does not allow for that, so the best she can manage is a small groan, fingers curling against the floor in a triumphant fist. she had done it; now, if she could just stand up –

**‘ THANK YOU FOR ASSUMING THE PARTY ESCORT SUBMISSION POSITION. ’**

chell blanches, scrambling for a mad second before a metallic weight is clipped around her ankle. once, and only once, does she give into a sob, before her dissapointment and fear turns into fatigue, berating her endlessly until her eyes slip shut. holding onto the image of the sun for dear life, chell is painfully dragged backwards, fingers gripping uselessly at the floor.

when she next wakes, the event seems like a distant dream, something that she could only hope for: and that’s exactly what she does.


	3. A Fading Memory.

laughter, doughnut sprinkles scattered across a polished wooden desk. a quick noise, then a flash of static – someone had set the sprinklers off, and she doesn’t remember who, but she remembers that this is the third time he’s done it this week and that his garbled apologies are strangely endearing. standing, walking, jumping to reach a switch – strong hands closing around her waist, lifting her clean into the air, a smirk just by her ear. switch flipped, arm swatted at, smile genuine. these people are her friends, but she does not know their faces, their names, their voices.

a queue to get dry, wringing out her hair, someone to her left trying to clean his glasses but just smearing the water further onto the glass. paperwork ruined, hard drives rescued hastily to reserve back up files – but they’re still laughing, rolling their eyes playfully, not at all irritated. flights of stairs, a woman, light on her feet, wrapping a towel around chell’s shoulders. an overwhelming smell of coffee and bleach, a hairtie to clear her soaked curls from her face, a grateful nod. she is happy here. she had been happy there, at one point. it’s a pity that they’re ghosts to her now, blurred and voiceless figures that flicker behind her closed eyes. a pity she only sees them in her dreams. 


End file.
